The Light of a New Beginning
by n0pe
Summary: There is a lot Ziva David could do; disarm a man in a second, kill him in a half, make him fall for her in even less, but she couldn’t beat death. Or could she? Coming home after Somalia isn't as easy as Ziva expected. Tiva, Somalia ended differently.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is about Ziva in Somalia, and the aftermath. It doesn't follow the show's story, but isn't that what fanfics are for? This is a whole different writing style as my other stories, but I really enjoy writing like this. So, please review!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS.**

* * *

The first time, she is sitting alone in a dark cell. She is thinking. She is thinking of words and meanings, and words that have no meaning at all. But this one has.

_Light._

– Noun. 1) A measure or supply of light; illumination: _The wall cuts off our light. _2) The state of being visible, exposed to view, or revealed to public notice or knowledge; limelight: _The outcome has placed her in the light. _3) A gleam or sparkle, as in the eyes: _The light in her eyes hadn't returned. _–

She longs for the light. She needs the light, like Gibbs needs his boat to sail on seas of loss and like Tony needs his girls to make sure he doesn't love again and like McGee needs his games to forget the pain of real life. Like she needs them, to be complete, and she will never be complete again.

She never believed in good or bad, not even as a little girl. She isn't even sure she has ever been a little girl.

No, she may have been young, or small, or inexperienced, but she was never little.

This isn't voicing an opinion, but a fact. A fact she isn't proud of, or sad of, or even angry. She doesn't feel anything about it, and that isn't any different from every other thing these days.

What is different, is one thing. Ziva now believes in evil.

_Evil._

– Adjective. 1) Morally wrong or bad; immoral; wicked: _evil deeds; an evil life. _2) Harmful; injurious: _evil laws -_

She now believes in pure, poisonous evil that burns and aches and is ruthless and cruel. And she knows what it is, what it is like to be a killer, and to murder and destroy lives and hearts and nations.

She, however, was never evil. She can't say she never enjoyed the feeling, the adrenaline rush when executing a target, and the feeling of pride before her father sends her away, wishing for more, looking for perfection he will never find. But she never did it just because she could. She never killed just _because_, just because of the rush, and the feeling, and maybe even the excitement –she is not even sure what excitement is anymore- because if she would have done that, she would have been evil.

Evil like the men that took her here, the men that were wounded by her knives, her fists, her guns, but not where it mattered. Saleem lost some of his men, and of that Ziva _is _proud, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to stop them.

* * *

The second time she sits again, and nothing has changed, but everything has.

She is still alone. It is still dark. She still longs.

_Longing. _

– Noun. 1) Strong, persistent desire or craving, especially for something unattainable or distant, _filled with longing for home. _2) An instance of this, _a sudden longing to see old friends_ -

She longs for the light, for home, for her friends.

She remembers sitting on a chair, being bound, and hit, and sore and aching. She was all of those things, but never this. Never broken. All those tortures in there, in that godforsaken hellhole in some faraway country, hadn't broken her.

What did, was coming home.

_Home._

– Noun. 1) A house, apartment, or other shelter that is the usual residence of a person, family, or household. 2) A person's native place or own country -

_No, _she thinks. This is wrong. She is back in her house, her apartment, the shelter that is her usual residence. She is back in her native place, her native country, but she doesn't feel at home.

When she thought of home, she thought of them. Her light, the ones that weren't evil, not like the men that hurt her -they hurt her, and she hurt them, but they weren't evil- and the ones she was longing for. The ones she missed

_To miss. _

– Verb. 1) To fail to hit or strike: _to miss a target._ 2) To regret the absence or loss of: _I miss you all dreadfully _-

Gibbs. Oh, how she has missed his head slaps, and 'gear up's', and the way he gently kissed her on her cheek, and the way he held his hands on her back, guiding her, back home, back to them, back to the light.

Tim. She has missed his stuttering, his nervous ramblings, and the way he looked annoyed but smiled a little when she and Tony were bickering. The way he looked at her, a true, genuine friend.

Abby. The way Abby hugged her, and the way Abby cheered her up, and wrapped her in love, and care and family –the real kind-, and the way she was happy.

Ducky. How could she not have missed Ducky, missed the way he calmed her, and made her tea and listened to her, and the way he took care of his guests –that's what Ducky said they all were, guests of life- and talked to the dead, and didn't mind them not providing any answers.

Palmer. Yes, even Palmer was missed, and she had never expected to have so much room in her heart, to fit them all in.

Tony. She hadn't missed him. She hadn't missed his way of joking, of quoting movies just to make sure nobody cracked trough his shell –though colourfully painted in charm smiles and flirting and expensive clothes, is was still a shell- and she hadn't missed him.

He had always been there.

Every beating that had been taken, every insult that was made, every bone that had been broken, Tony had been there to help. To make sure she didn't give up, because he believed in everything she wasn't. He believed she was a killer and a loving woman, a soldier and a beautiful girl.

That false sense of the belief, the trust she was sure he had in her –his own ninja- is what kept her going. It is what made sure she could be home again.

But she isn't. Not now, not in this hot country that is so full of life for some, but deserted and empty to her, that is her native land but never was and never will be her home.

So, she calls him. She tells him everything, from the beatings to the insults to the realisations to the words. From her broken bones to her crushed heart, her bruised cheeks and her sore eyes. She tells him of the horror when they cut her up, of the gasps for air when they held her head under water, of the pain in every inch of her body when they made her stand for hours. She tells him everything, except for the one thing that matters to her – of him.

"Come home, Zee-vah" And she longs for it, wants it, needs it. But she cannot. Correction, she does not. Not before she is done here. Not before she proves to herself that she is broken but can be mended, she has to be.

She realises.

_Realize._

– Verb. 1) To grasp or understand clearly 2) To make real; give reality to (a hope, fear, plan) -

* * *

The third time, she is laying on the ground, staring above her, at the stars.

_Star. _

-Noun. 1) Any of the heavenly bodies, except the moon, appearing as fixed luminous points in the sky at night. 2) a person's destiny, fortune, temperament, regarded as influenced and determined by the stars -

She feels a presence approaching her, and oh, how she wants it to be _him._ But it cannot be. He is in America, safe, and warm and happy and loved.

She quickly tilts her head, ready to attack if needed, and sees it's a little boy. A little boy that looks just like Tony.

Tony has a lighter skin, this boy's skin tone is darker, Tony has green eyes, this boy has brown ones, Tony's lips are fuller, this boy's are thin. But he is innocent, not aware of the wars and battles that are fought, but just pure innocence. Just like Tony.

He lays down next to her, and instead of being frightened of her -a woman that could kill him in a thousand ways, in the country of fighting, and of mothers grieving over lost children and fallen sons- he begins to sing.

It is a prayer, for all of those who died, who gave their lives or maybe just lost them, and for those who were left behind, empty, in pain and a part of them forever gone.

It is a prayer she recognises, for she had sung it a million times. For her mother, her sister, her brother, and all the ones she did not know but deserve a prayer nonetheless.

She starts to sing, too, and the boy turns around, facing her, an angelic expression on his face and his eyes filled with hope and pride, fear and grief, endings and beginnings.

_Beginning_– Noun. 1) The point of time or space at witch anything begins: _the beginning of the route. _-

Yes, this is a beginning, it would be slow and painful and maybe even impossible, but this is the beginning, and she sings once more –high and pure, softly and tenderly- and by the time the song ends, the boy is gone, and so is she, long lost in the darkness of the desert.

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**A/N: So? It's kind of a new style for me, and I have no idea if anyone likes it. The only one who already read it is my sister, and she is twelve and doesn't understand half the words I used so it doesn't really count. So, I need feedback! Review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I know I said it would be a oneshot, but I just couldn't resist putting up Tony's view too. I decided I like the style of writing, and I'm definately going to do some more stories like this, but first I have got to finish my crossover. People who are waiting for an update for that story, hold on! It's coming! Well, please let me know if you think I should write a third chapter about them meeting again, I'm not sure if it would complement the story or just completely ruin it. **

**Disclaimer: I absolutely, most definitely not own NCIS. Duh.**

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The first time, he is standing in Abby's lab, surrounded by people and music and photos-Abby claimed they were art but in fact they were just photos of cadavers, reminding the living of what was coming- feeling oh so alone. That's when it came.

"She's dead."

_That's all it had taken._

Those two words, small and little and oh so heartbreaking. He can feel Gibbs, eyes on the back of his head and hands on the back of his shoulders and compassion trying to reach the small space in his chest where he suspects hides the soot black carcass of his heart; but he can't be sure, as he is no longer aware of the fact he is still alive.

_He shouldn't have been alive. _

He has no reason to be dead –or to feel guilty about hers - he has done nothing to quicken her passing, nor has she taken his place to die. That was what would happen in a movie.

_Tony's life wasn't a movie._

If his life would have been a movie, he would have saved the princess and defeated the witch and held her and married her and loved her forever, and they would live happily ever after in a castle on a hill.

_She wouldn't have liked it. _

Ziva was a princess and a ninja and a fucking martyr and so much more, but they would never live happily ever after, not even if he burned the witch and saved his girl and kissed her until she woke up. She would run away and hide until he could no longer search and yell and long for her and he would just lay down on the ground and sob.

_Like he had been doing then._

He didn't care about Abby, who was watching him with worried, make-up stained eyes that were boring into his soul or McGee who hadn't even flinched at the news, holding his mask because someone had to. Gibbs didn't count; all of his loved ones died -Tony hoped he was next, but ladies go first, polite as ever- His mask didn't need putting up, it never left his face. No, he didn't care if they would scream or kick or cry or hurt him.

_He wouldn't have felt it anyway._

Strangely enough, all he felt was emptiness when he thought of her, now nothing more than a floating body in a dead sea, staring up with broken eyes, unable to scare death away with her murder glares and terrifying stares.

There is a lot Ziva David can –could- do; disarm a man in a second, kill him in a half, make him fall for her in even less, but she couldn't beat death.

_He had wanted to love her._

He wanted her to have felt the warmth of love; he was sure she had felt the hot, humid desert air of so many countries, the warm, sweaty skin of so many men, and the sharp burn of so many bullet wounds, but never the warmth of the true, heated, all-consuming love that had left his heart so hollow and in need of her.

_He had needed her._

* * *

The second time, he is sitting in the park, watching women who run like her, tough she was always faster and far more guarded and so much more beautiful it is almost painful. Women he has now lost all interest in, except for comparing them to the one he would never have.

His phone rings, and if it wasn't for that little voice in the back of his head telling him he had to pick up -Gibbs might need him, they might have found something (someone) more to grieve about- he probably would have left it right there on the park bench. But, the voice is there, and he finds himself answering in a low, hushed voice, laced with raw pain and naked mourning and something even Gibbs wouldn't be able to identify.

"DiNozzo" Or what was left of him.

"Shalom"

_He had never been so relieved his entire life to hear such a hated word. _

"Ziva. You're alive." Facts. Simple, irrefutable, rational facts. Facts he thought he would never be able to truthfully state again. But she _was_ alive, and he _was _happy and grateful and barely surviving.

"I missed you so much." These five words are all he has been wanting to hear for quite some time now, and suddenly they sound wrong.

"I… Do you know what they did to me, Tony?" No. He doesn't know, and it isn't good for him to know what they did to her, it isn't going to help him if he knows what they did to her, but he has to. He has to know.

"Yeah. They made you hurt. I'm so sorry, Ziva." His voice is full of unspoken promises, and if they would be standing face to face he would probably try to touch her, as he needed proof this wasn't just a hallucination, that she wouldn't be gone in a second and he wouldn't be alone, drowning in the pool of thick and chocking grief that was like quicksand; pulling him down and never letting go.

_And then she had started talking. _

She told him why she was in Somalia, but never with whom. She told him of how she was held in a dirty and filthy and –compared to the occupant's history- very innocent cell. He thinks of her, sitting on a chair in a lonely country somewhere far away and hair covered in dried crimson blood that is surrounding her head like a halo, and he imagines the irony of it all; Ziva was no angel, she was far from one, but she was strong and fierce and never giving up, and she had to hold on. He could see Saleem now, torturing her, paining her, treating her like a dog but in his mind she is wearing a dress, that must have been white once, but now it was saturated with blood, the same blood that was flowing freely from the marks and wounds all over her body.

_He had wanted to take care of her._

Ziva had been telling him of Somalia, that cursed country he would never visit and always be somewhere in the back of his mind, for almost an hour now, and he is surprised how time can pass by so disturbingly fast and slow at the same time. Finally, she told him of her rescue, of the Mossad team that had been disappointed when they realised they had only saved a woman –tough a very good agent, and even better assassin, and a thousand times worse person- that is what she was, a woman. This made him mad, made his blood boil and his skin crawl with the desire to kill them, kill them all and do it again, but Ziva needed him, and he needed her.

"Come home, Zee-vah." He stretches her name, like he has always done and will always keep on doing, whether she is going to be there to listen to it, or far away but always close by. She doesn't answer, but he can hear the silence speak loud and clear. She wants to. He is relieved.

_She had been wanting to come home._

He understood it. She needed time. Hell, if he had been through that he would need ages, but he would also need her and her hair and her hands and the way her back curved so perfectly and the way her body had this beautiful tan and the way her skin felt, so soft in his hardened hands from the work he hardly ever did. So he would give her time, and they would be together again, even if it would take days, weeks, months, years -lifetimes would not be acceptable for him, because death gave him no insurance he would ever see her again, and that was one thing he needed- he would wait for her.

"Ti amo." She already knew it, he was aware of that. It was him, who needed reassuring, to make sure he remembered through all the pain and sorrow and happiness and Abby's hugs and Gibbs' slaps and McGee's geek speak, that he loved her.

_He had always loved her, he still did._

* * *

The third time he is laying in his bed, windows closed and phones shut off and doors locked, and he holds a photograph. It's a photograph of a girl, with black hair and brown eyes and cargo pants, combat boots and a Star of David around her neck. A little boy was resting in her arms, and she seemed to be singing him a lullaby. The girl's age was around fourteen, and he could see that she was armed and dangerous and oh so brave, and this is what kept him going all those painful days and torturous nights, and the time in between that was even worse. It was this brave little girl, this beautiful woman, _his_ love and his life. It might seem overly dramatic, or like a Greek tragedy and he supposes it is.

_It had been dramatic and tragic and oh so blissfully ignorant. _

He had always loved her, and he still did.

* * *

**A/N: So, third chapter or not? I'm not sure yet. Review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: So, here it is. The final installment in my series. Thanks a lot to SheWillBeLoved013 for beta-ing this.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own NCIS. Wish I did though. **

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The first time, the room is full of light and people and feelings that aren't the ones she's supposed to feel. She's supposed to feel happy and grateful and overflowing with joy, but instead she's filled with wanting; wanting one thing only.

Him.

She wants to be alone with him, to hold him and never leave again, feeling their bodies fit together in a perfect way that should have been impossible. After all, they are nothing alike. They are a man who's afraid of commitment and yet was ready to do anything –everything- to get her back where she never belonged, and a woman whose life consists out of nothing but sheer lies and never ending sorrow. It's wrong, but somehow it feels like the only thing that has ever been right.

Of course, she loves _them_ too. She'll want to see them, to hug them and let their laughter illuminate her soul again in time but in that moment filled with that feeling so unlike anything she has ever felt they don't matter.

The wanting that fills her is a new feeling, so unlike the numbness and pain that had overtaken her everything those slow and painful and never healing days. It's something she welcomes, for everything is better than the fiery pain of the tortured mind.

She suspects he wants it too, seeing his fingers twitch every time someone else comes up to her, and she notices the way his eyes never seem to leave hers, and it's okay. They will have time. She will be genuinely happy to see them later, but for now she will put up a brave face, smile at the world and in a while, when they're alone, it'll be all right.

* * *

The second time, they are pressed together in the narrow space of a randomly picked janitor's closet, the first vacated space they can find. It's dark and sweaty and she knows it should remind her of Somalia, but instead another thought fills her mind. She's attacked by the memory of that time in their warm and sweaty and way too big bed they once shared –it shouldn't have been big, because having space meant dealing with things and that was one thing they couldn't let into their lives just for the sake of surviving.

That cursed night was spent with that beloved man, and when dawn had broke, the morning light had shined down into the room, showing the world for just the briefest of moments, two tiny lost souls in search of comfort and acceptance and of everything they had never been given. The splendor of that moment was _so_ defining. After all, they were just two strangers in a room, holding onto each other for dear life.

The comparison isn't even that odd; they are holding each other right now too, and although it's just a strongly clasped hand in a dim closet that will never be dark enough to hide the secrets of the pair inside it, it gives him the courage to go on, and so they do.

He had imagined this moment a thousand times. Of course he hadn't imagined the long silence or the pained look of betrayal in her eyes, but he _had_ imagined their carefulness, and the soft and ginger embrace they shared, neither willing to break it. He couldn't have imagined the overwhelming sense of pride that washes over him when she finally stands before him, alive and well and all but unscathed because he had never felt pride, not in the fullest sense.

He moves forward, agonizingly slow, and kisses the crook of her neck. It's gentle and soft and oh so glorious, and he takes comfort in the quick but steady beating of her heart, at last secure under his loving touch.

He silently moves his lips higher, still holding on to her hand, determined to make sure she won't run -running is for the scared and she has most definitely never been scared, or had a reason to for that matter. As he reaches her jaw, that beautiful, tanned part of her body, he thinks of how much of a coward he has been. He remembers how he used to sit at his desk, watching her when she was working. Just watching her and those captivating eyes of hers, the way her nose is slightly crooked; he imagined it was from one of her many fights –she was never defeated, but to date she hasn't won either- and he sees that jaw, firmly set, always honest and brave and oh so stupid. And he has been a coward. A fucking coward who didn't have the guts to tell her what she needed to hear –it'll be all right, even though he isn't sure what right is anymore, except for her body to his and her head in his hands. And then came Michael. And then he killed him, and then she left and then his life had no purpose. He was lost, and not even righty to the word coward.

But now, she was there and he was kissing her and it didn't matter; he had been a coward and it hadn't killed her –not completely- and he thanks God and Allah and Buddha and Jahweh, Vishnu and Ghanesh and Waheguru and Zeus and every god he has ever heard of because all that matters is that she is here.

He now reaches her lips and suddenly she kisses him back; all the gentleness and carefulness and worry in the world were forgotten because all she wants – _all she needs _–is him and him forever.

This kiss is fierce and passionate and so much better than every single one they had shared before because now they realize there is nothing holding them back. No more excuses, or flimsy lies they both knew were oh so translucent and they don't want it anymore. But for now, they don't think about it. All they do is kiss and cradle and hold and love, and the basic need for breath is the only cursed thing that can tear them apart. It's filled with fortitude and honey and smells and feelings he had long ago given up, but now they crash in like waves destroying a carefully built sand castle, only to leave the messy heart of it all that the castle couldn't hide from the sea no matter how hard it tried –and maybe that's a good thing.

* * *

The third time they are lying entangled in sheets and bodies and he can't even tell where she ends and he begins and it's the best feeling he has ever had. They are once more in a warm and sweaty bed but this time dawn doesn't need to break for them to expose themselves; there is nothing left to expose but the hurt that was caused by a single summer and that has been starting to heal, slowly but purposefully like the scars on her back he so lovingly strokes.

"You're beautiful, Ziva." It's true. She's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen and he's the luckiest man alive to have her here and to be able to touch her, to love her and kiss her eyelids and to see her. Really see her, and all that she is and the things that she isn't. She isn't a cold-hearted killer, or a robot programmed to do her father's every wish and never look back upon the hurt she has caused. But she _is _a loved one, and part of a family and even though Tali and Ari and her mother –he doesn't even know what she was called but it's okay, he knows who she was- aren't alive, aren't here to see how she survived, she still is a sister and a daughter and maybe even a mother. But he doesn't hope for it. No, his luck is probably all used up, because having her back here, back in his hands is enough for him and he doesn't even dare wish for more.

"I love you. I'll always love you, Tony."

There they lie, in a boat that was never meant to set sail with a love that was never meant to survive, but since when did fate work out anyway?

No, right now it's okay. They're together and alive and in love and one. It's not all, it's not ideal, it'll sure be hard and rough and even unbearably painful but it's a beginning. So they begin.

* * *

**A/N: Yes, it is a happy ending. I love stories that don't have a happy ending, I'm practically an angst whore, but somehow I find it very hard to write anything but a happy ending myself. Weird. Anyway, it was my birthday a few days ago, so maybe a belated birthday present in the form of a review? It would make me and the laptop I got very happy...**


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